Of Running and Standing Still
by Xanisis
Summary: Emma's never stayed in one place too long. She's not even sure if she knows how to stand still. It's all running and running and running and she can't seem to stop. High School AU.
1. Part I

Emma's never stayed in one place too long. She's not even sure if she knows how to stand still. It's all running and running and running and she can't seem to stop.

* * *

Her new family stares at her with wary eyes, their eyes tracking each of her movements as if there is something wrong with her. This is her eighth family in seventeen years. Maybe they're right.

* * *

Her new school is like all of the others before it. The kids are all trying to prove something, the lockers are too small and the teachers never say anything new. She walks through the halls by herself, ducks her head and keeps walking through the jeers of boys and the whispers of the girls.

"I heard she's been in like seven foster homes before this one."

"I don't even know why the Spears agreed to take her in."

"She's kinda hot."

"Oh. Shut it, Paul."

"Aren't they worried about Aaron? I wouldn't want my son to be around her. "

"You should hear about some of the stuff she did at her last school. I can't believe they let her in here."

_One more year_, she repeats to herself, her own personal mantra, _one more year and then I'm out of here._

* * *

There's a boy staring at her in her World History class, his gaze curious and a bit too personal for her taste. There's something entirely relaxed about him, as if he's completely comfortable in his own skin. She stares back and she likes the flicker of surprise in his eyes as she holds his gaze. He's the one who breaks away, turning to talk to the boy next to him, but his eyes flick back to her several moments later.

* * *

She learns later that the boy is Killian Jones, captain of the swim team and the object of endless bathroom giggles. She tells herself that she's going to stay away from him. A boy that pretty is nothing but trouble.

* * *

"Swan," she hears called from behind her.

She turns to find Killian Jones jogging towards her. She keeps walking.

"Hey," he says, "wait up."

When he reaches her, he places a hand on her shoulder to stop her, turning her to face him with a smile. She cocks an eyebrow and looks pointedly at his hand until he removes it from her shoulder, placing both hands in his pockets. There's something strangely young at the position, as if he were a little boy about to ask for a new toy.

"Something you want, Jones?"

"Just the pleasure of your company, Swan" he says, "Tonight. My place. I can pick you up at 7?"

There's a confidence in his voice that suggests that he's used to people saying yes to him, but also an earnestness that is annoyingly appealing. Emma doesn't reply, just turns and continues walking down the hallway. She has no interest in being Killian's latest conquest and the brunt of everyone's jokes.

"Is that a yes?" he calls to her back.

"In you dreams," she shoots back, not even bothering to turn around.

"You will be."

She flips him off over her shoulder and hears his responding laughter echo throughout the hallway. There's something strangely free and uninhibited about it. As if she actually surprised him. Dick.

* * *

It becomes almost habitual, him asking her out and her rejecting him. It shouldn't make her comfortable, but it does. And it's not like she likes him or anything, but he's charming. And she likes being the one to wipe the smirk from his face and replace it with an actual smile. Likes watching that smile spread across his face and infect the color of his eyes. Likes how his attempts to ask her out become more and more ludicrous until it's almost a joke between them. And they're not friends or anything, but it almost feels like it sometimes.

That doesn't mean she forgets who he is. Or the fact that he's just a rich boy trying to break her or get in the pants or whatever. Guys like him don't actually like girls like her. She knows that. But sometimes she wants to forget.

* * *

He stops coming to school for awhile. One day, he just doesn't show up for World History. She doesn't think much of it, but then he doesn't show up for the rest of the week and she's not concerned or anything, she just wonders.

* * *

"I heard his brother died."

"No way," the other girl whispers. "How?"

Emma turns off the facet, but she doesn't move from her spot at the sink. Something keeps her rooted in place.

"He's been stationed over in Afghanistan for the past two years," the first girl says and there's something completely wrong with the way she says it, as if it's scandalous and exciting and not death. "He was killed in battle. The family just found out on Monday."

"Poor Killian. He's probably devastated."

But her inflection is all off, her smile betraying her.

"He's probably going to need a shoulder to cry on, don't you think?"

The two girls leave the bathroom giggling, but Emma doesn't move. She just stares at her reflection in the mirror, trying to understand the expression on her face: her brow furrowed, her eyes wide. His brother fucking _died_. But she doesn't care, does she? Why would she care?

* * *

He doesn't come back.

* * *

She throws herself into her work with a passion. She goes to school and her job and when she finally gets home she does homework until she can't keep her eyes open. Then she wakes up and does it again. And again. And again. And if sometimes she feels like she's going to scream or explode or _something_, she ignores it. She keeps moving. She has to keep moving.

* * *

When he comes back to school, he looks different. He's lost the shiny golden boy persona. His posture is slumped and his hair is rumpled and his eyes darker and his smiles fewer and he just seems _different_. He comes to class smelling like alcohol and pot and he seems blurred, as if he's not really there. And he doesn't look at her anymore. That shouldn't bother her, but it does.

* * *

She leaves later than she normally would because she stayed after to talk to Mr. Gold about her history project. The halls are deserted, strange and out of proportion without students crowding them. There's something eerie to the empty halls, the lights still on with no one around. She is passing by Coach Lucas' classroom when she hears shouting. She plans to just keep walking, but then she recognizes the voice emanating from behind the door.

"So you're just going to kick me out."

"Listen, Jones. I know you've been going through stuff at home-"

"Going through stuff at home? Is that what you call my brother dying? Then yeah, I guess I've been _going through some stuff at home_."

"I'm only asking you to submit to a drug test, Killian. If you come up clean, you can stay on the team."

"And if not, you'll kick me out. I got the memo. Thanks Coach."

The door swings open and hits the wall with a bang that makes Emma flinch. She sees the surprise on Killian's face as he sees her standing in the doorway. He frowns and then averts his eyes, brushing past her and then storming down the hallway without saying a word.

* * *

She can't stop herself from mulling over the way Killian had looked right through her. She's used to other people treating her that way, but she's grown too used to feeling like he could actually see her. She pushes herself up off the couch and grabs her sneakers from the floor, pulling them on and tightening the laces. She just needs a good run to clear her head.

She feels better once she hits the street, her feet sounding a comfortable beat as they hit the pavement. She runs harder, enjoying the stretch and pull of her muscles as she speeds up. Her breath comes in harsh gasps, and her legs start to burn, but she feels better than she has in a long while.

The neighborhood the Spears live in is big and circuitous and all the houses look the same and it doesn't take long for her to realize that she is hopelessly lost. She slows down to a walk, feeling her heart thump loudly in her chest.

It's getting dark outside and Emma is starting to think that maybe going for a run was not her smartest idea. She has just resolved to go up to the next house and ask for directions back to the Spears' when she sees a familiar silhouette sitting on the porch steps of a large house to her left.

He looks a mess. The light from his cigarette illuminates his face and she can see the dark shadows beneath his eyes and the start of stubble on his cheeks. Emma is about to head over and talk to him, to say what she doesn't know, to apologize maybe, when the door swings open, and a woman steps out. She takes in the sight of Killian collapsed on her front porch steps, glances up at the house briefly and then takes the seat next to him, plucking the cigarette from his grasp and bringing it to her lips.

Emma can see their mouths moving, but she's not close enough to hear what they are saying. Something about the women looks very familiar, as if she knows her from somewhere, but she has no clue where.

Emma wonders if she should go, she feels strangely like she's intruding on something, though she doesn't know why. The woman is old enough to be Killian's mother. It probably is his mother, she thinks, but even in her head it sounds like she's in denial. Emma watches as Killian takes the cigarette back from the woman, but he doesn't place it in his mouth. He just holds it and looks at her for a long moment and then they're falling into each other and Emma is running.

* * *

He starts hitting on her again, but there's an edge to it now. He leers instead of smiles, and she can't meet his eyes anymore. It's like he's seeing how far he can push her. She's starting to want to push back.

* * *

She's having a really shitty day. She woke up late and forgot her economics homework, and her hair is a fucking mess, and if Killian makes one more innuendo she swears to god she will kill him. She leaves World History in a rush, out the door before most of the class has even packed their stuff up. She's practically running, and she's not watching where she's going, she just knows she wants to get as far away from that class and Killian's smirking as physically possible, and so it's not really a surprise when she slams into the pole separating the hallway doors.

"Fuck," she says too loud to be socially acceptable.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck that hurts."

"Are you alright?" someone asks.

She turns to find a boy peering anxiously down at her. She ducks her head to hide the fact that tears are welling up in her eyes. She doesn't want to cry in front of a stranger. Especially a really attractive stranger who's just trying to be nice.

"Hey, come one," he says taking her arm, "I'll walk you to the nurses office."

"No. It's okay. I'm fine," she says, shrugging his hand from her arm and trying to subtly wipe her eyes without him noticing. From the look on his face, he doesn't buy it.

"Uh huh. Sure you are," he says, "Come on."

She lets him lead her to the nurse's office, and she lets him scrawl his name and number on her hand in crazy illegible scrawl after he's dropped her off. When she gets home she stares at the sprawled _Graham_ on her hand and the number beneath it for a long time. Then she picks up the phone to call him.

* * *

"Where are we going?" she asks him, her fingers tapping out a nervous beat against the side door.

"It's a surprise," he says, turning to smile at her and she feels her stomach tighten. He's not allowed to look at her like that when the wind is ruffling his hair and the sun is causing his eyes to sparkle.

"Eyes on the road, buddy," she says, gesturing towards the windshield

He laughs at that, but dutifully turns his head. Emma looks out the window too, but she doesn't know this area well enough to recognize anything rushing past her.

"Really, Graham. Where are we going?"

"Okay," he says with the air of someone admitting something awful, "This is really dorky, but we're going to the zoo."

There's a long beat.

"The zoo? Really?"

"Yeah," he says in a rush, "I know it's probably not your ideal first date, but I like going there when I'm stressed. It's calming somehow. I don't know. It's hard to explain. I think you'll like it though."

"Okay," she says, "Why not?"

"Really?" he asks and the smile he gives her is so dazzling she wants to look away, but she doesn't. She lets herself smile along with him.

* * *

She has fun at the zoo. It's kind of lame and awkward, but Graham is adorably excited about it, pointing out all of his favorite spots and tugging on her hand to lead her to the next exhibit with all of the enthusiasm of a little kid.

They make out against the wall of the snake house, her back pressing into the rough stone. She likes the way he kisses, slow and unhurried. Likes how he lets her take the lead. Likes the way he falls towards her all clumsy hands and smiles. She likes how she feels in control.

* * *

She likes dating Graham because he's nice and he comes over when she's sick and lets her pick the movie and he opens her car door and picks her up when he says he will and asks her what's wrong when she's feeling down and does everything he's supposed to do.

* * *

As she's turning her test into Mr. Gold her elbow hits the picture frame that always rests on his desk, and it clatters to floor with a loud thud.

"Sorry," she says automatically, bending down to pick it up off the floor.

She turns the frame over in her hands, intending to set it back on the table but something about the women in the photo catches her eye. And then it clicks and _oh god, oh god, this isn't happening._

She can't quite breathe because she's realized why_ the women_ looked so familiar.

She sets the picture down with a clang on the desk and is out of the door before she can do something stupid like scream or cry or _something_.

* * *

She feels better once she's out in the hallway inhaling deep breaths of fresh air. So what if he's fucking the history teacher's wife? It's not like he's her boyfriend or anything. She lets out a shaky breath and runs her hand through her hair and then pushes herself off the wall, wiping her hands on her jeans. _Pull it together, Emma._

She pulls out her phone to text Graham and see if he wants to skip lunch to get fast food, but he doesn't reply. She stares at her phone screen for a minute and then flips it shut, stuffs it in her pocket, and starts down the hall to the parking lot. She figures he'll probably get the text soon and meet her out there.

She spies his car in the far corner of the lot and heads over. She plans to lay out on the hood of Graham's ratty car and do homework until he finishes class. She's trying to decide whether to do last night's math homework or get a head start on her economics project, when something stops her in her tracks. Graham's already in his car, she would recognize that mop of curly hair anywhere, but that's not the thing that shocks her.

She should look away, should turn around and walk back the way she came, but she can't seem to stop herself from staring at the couple in the car. She watches Graham's hand make his way into the girl's dark hair to tug her mouth closer to his and fuck, _he's done the exact same thing with her and she knows exactly how good his lips feel and what is she watching? Holy shit. What is she watching?_

She notices the exact moment that Graham sees her standing there. Sees the recognition flare in his eyes and then he's breaking away and opening the car door. and she finally remembers how to move.

"Emma. Wait," he calls, running after her, "I can explain."

She turns, catches sight of his earnest face, somehow seeming innocent and so fucking nice even though she just caught him sucking face with another girl.

"Don't, Graham. Just don't. Don't even fucking come near me, alright?'

"Emma," he says, grabbing her arm to stop her.

"Don't touch me," she says and it comes out quiet and far more in control than Emma feels.

He drops his hand, but he looks wounded, like she's the one that hurt him and not the other way around and she doesn't care. She doesn't care. She doesn't care.

* * *

It's not like she loved him or anything, she just thought that he was nice and that he liked her or something. But of course not. Of course not.

* * *

She hates crying. Hates the tightness in her eyes and the snot building in her nose and the pressure in her brain that makes her feel like her head is going to explode. She never cries. She gets mad. And she is mad, she's so mad she can hardly breathe. But she's also almost unbearably lonely

She really really can't handle going to the lunchroom and sitting by herself right now, just a reminder of what Graham's done, so she hides behind the gym, sinking to the ground and resting her head on her knees. _Keep it together, Emma_, she thinks. But she can't. She can't.

She hears the click of the door to her left opening and she looks up through bleary eyes to see the last person she would like to ever see her cry peering down at her.

"Swan?" he asks and he almost looks genuinely concerned, before a sneer overtakes his face, "Get in a fight with lover boy?"

"Fuck you, Killian," she says, standing up to face him.

"Is that an invitation, love?" he asks, stepping closer and there's something almost menacing in the way he invades her personal space.

She pushes him, taking pleasure in the look of surprise that comes across his face. He stumbles back, but she keeps coming after him, beating her fists against his chest.

"Swan," he says his voice softening, "Emma. Calm down."

His arms come around her waist, trying to draw her to him, but she fights, struggling out of his grasp. She hits him hard, and she can hear from his resounding groan that it hurts. He's too close, and all she wants to do is melt into his arms and cry, but she can't. Because that would mean he would win. And she's not going to give him the satisfaction. So she runs away. That seems to be the only thing she's good at anyway.

* * *

She goes to a party because she just really needs to get drunk. Graham never really approved of the whole party scene and it gives her a sick sort of pleasure to do something that he would hate. The party is hosted by a girl named Ruby who answers the door wearing little more than her underwear and looks at Emma through hazy eyes.

Emma shoulder by her into the house. It is packed with people standing almost shoulder to shoulder and laughing and drinking out of red cups. Emma doesn't know most of them, though she recognizes some of them from the hallways, but at least this is a familiar environment. She feels better once she has a cup in her hand and some alcohol in her body. It's like she can breathe without _everything_ weighing her down.

She ends up talking to a boy with shaggy brown hair and intense eyes named Neal. He stands too close in the small room, but there's nothing threatening about it, so she lets him stay. He whispers stories in her ear about all of her classmates as his thumb traces circles on her hip. Some of them are too ludicrous to be true, but they make her laugh and she needs to laugh right now.

When they move into the living room, she sees _him_ sitting on the coach. Of course Killian would be here; she can't believe she hadn't thought of that. He has two girls on his lap, both of them in various states of undress and clinging to him in a ridiculous sort of way. He has a cup in his hand and a smile on his mouth, but his eyes look empty. And she realizes that maybe underneath it all he's just as lonely as she is.


	2. Part II

She lets Neal kiss her in one of the upstairs bedrooms, lets him slide a hand up her thigh and under her skirt, doesn't protest when he pushes her back into the sheets. She doesn't do anything, just lets him, stares up at the ceiling until he's finished. She thinks maybe that's worse.

* * *

She likes dating Neal because he's wild and he never calls her and he shows up drunk to everything and he doesn't look at her while he fucks her and he doesn't care what's wrong or that she's just as messed up as he is and he does nothing that he's supposed to do. But he doesn't judge her. At least that's something.

* * *

He takes her to parties and she drinks until she can't think straight and she stumbles into strangers and laughs when she falls and it's fun. It's fun. It's fun. It's fun. And if Emma ever feels like she's spiraling out of control, she ignores it.

* * *

She's really drunk, she thinks hazily. She leans back against Neal's chest, nudges his neck with her nose, presses her lips to his collarbone. He laughs at something the girl next to him says and doesn't acknowledge Emma except to slide his hand up and down her leg as if to say, _later_. She hums and curls up on his lap, her head going to his chest, so she can hear the cadence of his voice without listening to the actual words. She feels loose, loose and relaxed and almost as if she isn't actually there. It's nice.

"POLICE!" comes a desperate shout from outside.

The ensuing panic is instantaneous. Emma topples to the ground, hitting her head on the edge of the table, as Neal stands up. People previously completely lethargic run rabid around the house, escaping through any possible exit, knocking over anything in their path, leaving a wasteland of chairs and plastic cups in their wake. She tries to get up, but feels dizzy and nauseous, her eyes blinking as the room spins. She touches her hand to the side of her head and it comes away wet with blood. She stares at it, uncomprehending, unable to understand the smear of red against her fingers. _Neal_, she thinks, reaching out, but when she turns to look no one is there.

"Neal," she says, as if saying his name will make him materialize.

But he doesn't. She is alone.

* * *

She calls her foster parents from the police station, listening to the dial ring and ring. She wonders if anyone will even answer.

"Hello?" comes a bleary voice from the other end.

"Susan? It's Emma," she says.

"Emma? Where are you? I thought you were upstairs."

Emma closes her eyes, her shoulders collapsing in on themselves. She remembers now. Claiming a headache and then sneaking out the window with Neal. Laughing at the secrecy of it as she'd taken a drag from his blunt.

"No," she says, "No. I'm at the police station."

The line is silent for so long, that Emma would think it had gone dead if she couldn't hear the other woman's breathing on the other line.

"Susan?" Emma asks.

"I'll be there soon," she says and she sounds so disappointed Emma wants to cry.

The phone clicks silent.

Emma leans back against the wall, resting her head against the cold cement. She catches sight of her reflection in opposing window and flinches. Her makeup is smudged, mascara running down her face. Her hair is a rat's nest, half of it matted to the side of her head with blood. But it is her eyes that scare her. She doesn't recognize the girl looking back at her.

_What am I doing?_ she thinks.

What am I doing?

_What am I doing?_

* * *

But she can't seem to stop.

* * *

They're sitting on Emma's bed, Emma's feet in Neal's lap, her toes running along the inseam of his jeans, curling along the inside of his thigh as he makes her laugh so hard she almost can't breathe, her hair falling forward as she leans into him, when she realizes.

"I don't even know your last name," she says, suddenly frozen.

"What?"

"I don't even know your last name," she repeats drawing her feet back in, suddenly not wanting to be touching him.

"Yeah. So?" he asks, leaning back on his hands, looking completely relaxed amidst her sheets.

"Neal," she says, "Do you even know my last name?"

"Smith?" he asks and then laughs at her expression, moving towards her, his hands going to her arms and then drawing down them to her hands. She shivers.

"Emma. Relax. I know your last name, alright? I thought you already knew mine, though you not knowing it explains a lot."

"What? What is it?"

Neal looks suddenly uncomfortable and sits back and removes his hands from her

"My name's Neal Gold," he says.

"As in-"

"Yeah," he says.

Fuck. _Fuck_. Fuck. As if things already weren't complicated enough.

* * *

She gets called to the counseling office during third block. She taps her foot as she waits outside the wooden door, counting out beats against the linoleum with her shoe. She studies the tiles, mapping out the red and orange specks against the peach background.

"Emma," she hears and whips her head up, her hair flying.

"Yeah. Hey Dr. Hopper," she says, turning to face her counselor, a middle aged man with balding ginger hair and a patchy tweed jacket, "What's up?"

"Why don't you come in?" he asks her, gesturing to his office and looking at her with so much pity in his eyes that she wants to scream.

She brushes by him, dropping into the chair in front of his desk. He takes his time crossing the room to his desk and by the time he is sitting in the opposing chair, Emma is squirming in her seat, feeling the rough material of the chair scrape against her bare thighs.

"First of all. Is there anything you would like to talk to me about?"

"Nope," she says, staring at the corner of his desk.

"Emma. You know you can talk to me, right?"

"Yeah. Right. I know," she says, "But I'm good."

She risks a glance at him and sees him staring at her with dissapointed eyes. She returns to her study of his desk's woodgrain.

"Okay," he says, but she can tell he doesn't believe her, "Well. I'm always here to talk. Whenever you need it, alright?"

There is a long stretch of silence and then she hears him sigh.

"My primary concern right now is your grades, Emma. You were doing so well at the beginning of this semester. What happened?"

_So much_, she wants to say.

"Nothing. I'm just- I'll do better," she says, already shouldering her backpack.

"Can I go?" she asks, standing up to leave.

He stares at her for a long time, long enough that she feels like he can see far more than she wants him to.

"Of course," he says, "Just know Emma..."

But she's already gone.

* * *

She has trouble turning her brain off. She can't stop thinking. Can't stop feeling. _Breathe_, she tells herself, _breathe_. But she can't. The only time she feels calm is when she's with Neal. It's like he numbs her to the world. She doesn't have to think with his lips on hers. She just goes blank. And she needs that. More than anything.

* * *

They go on an actual date for once. To the skating rink. Emma had laughed when he'd suggested it, but once they get there… it works. She hadn't expected it to, but it does. Neal fits in there, amongst the grubby carpet and neon lights, in a way that she can't quite explain.

They laugh and hold hands and she feels normal for once. She feels good with the wind running through her hair, causing the curls to snarl. It's like running, the ache in her legs and everything rushing past, almost like she could fly away.

And if she notices him staring at her with too bright eyes with his hand on the flask she knows is in his jacket pocket, she ignores it. Pretends that he could smile at her without alcohol coursing through his veins.

* * *

She studies her face in the bathroom mirror, notes her red face and starry eyes and giddy smile. She lets out a deep breath, tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, and prepares to exit the bathroom.

As she is leaving, she bumps into something hard. Hands come to her waist to keep her from falling. Even so, she wobbles on her skates and her hands come up to brace themselves on the person's shoulders, her legs moving without her volition.

"Woah. You okay?" she hears and then, "Swan? What are you doing here?"

She looks up to see Killian Jones smiling at her, his face remarkably close to hers, his hands spread across her waist, burning her skin, hers still gripping his shoulders, grasping the thin fabric of his shirt. There's something shocking about seeing him here. He looks entirely out of place.

"What are you doing here?" she asks and it comes out more breathless than she expects.

"I asked you first," he says and there's something in his voice that makes her shiver.

"Emma!" she hears called and she looks over Killian's shoulder to see Neal heading towards them.

She lets go of him and he steps back, removing his hands from her waist, leaving her side feeling strangely cold.

"Gold," Killian says when Neal reaches them, pulling Emma into his side a little forcefully.

His hand wraps possessively around her, his thumb edging her top up, his palm wresting on the bare skin of her hip. Emma watches Killian's eyes track the movement, flicking down to her exposed skin and then back up to her eyes. She's the one who breaks the eye contact.

Neal nuzzles into her neck, his nose rubbing against her earlobe, his breath hot against her neck. She can smell alcohol on his breath.

"Neal. Not right now, okay?"

His mouth comes down on her ear, something aggressive in the way he tugs at it. She pushes him off her and he lets out an angry exhale, staring at her for a second, his eyes hard, before skating off. There's something almost comical in it, his strides awkward on the carpeted floor, but Emma doesn't laugh, mindful of the way Killian is watching the entire exchange, something tightening in his eyes.

They stand in silence for a long, tense moment.

"I-" Emma starts, but then she closes her mouth. She doesn't know why she feels the need to justify anything. It's none of his business.

He stares at her for a long time, but just when she thinks he might finally say something, a voice calls his name.

"Killian!" a blonde girl by the concession stand says, "We're going to be starting soon. They're clearing the floor."

He nods his assent and starts towards her, but then stops, turning back to Emma. She feels strangely vulnerable under his scrutiny.

He starts to say something, then changes his mind.

"Bye, Swan," he says instead.

"Bye, Jones," she says, watching his retreating back.

She lets out a sigh and then heads off in search of Neal. She takes off her skates and returns them, padding around the rink in her socks, shoes in hand. The sidelines are beginning to fill up with spectators. Emma peers around them to see a small group of girls, Killian's blonde friend included, warming up, skating smooth and fast circles around each other. There's something incredibly free about their faces, smiling and laughing and intense. Emma diverts her eyes from the skaters, pushing through the crowd to find Neal, but she doesn't see him anywhere.

* * *

Emma sits on the bench outside the skating rink, the air humid and sticking to her skin. She clicks the on button on her phone and watches it light up, but there are no new text messages. She has called Neal eleven times and her foster parents at least that many, but no one is answering. She can't believe he left her. It's not the first time it's happened, but at least all the other time she had some other way of getting home. Asshole.

She checks her phone again, the little screen washing her face in a blue glow, then clicks the lock button and it fades back out. A couple walks past her, laughing and leaning into each other, their steps swaying, intoxicated with exhaustion and happiness. She hears the roar as their car starts and watches it exit the nearly empty parking lot, their headlights shining on the remaining cars.

"Emma?" she hears a familiar voice ask, "I thought you left hours ago."

"Apparently not," she answers, turning to face Killian.

"Do you need a ride somewhere?"

She checks her phone again, stares at the blank screen, and then nods. He gestures to his car across the lot and Emma stands and they walk together in silence. He clicks his keys and the car blares, the sound resounding in the still night air.

It's not until they are both in the car and he is pulling out onto the road that he says anything.

"Are you with that guy?" he asks.

"Who? Neal?"

She knows exactly who he was talking about.

"Yeah," he says, his hand gripping the steering wheel, the veins in his arms standing out.

"Why?"

"I just think you should be careful around him. I've heard some pretty unpleasant things about him."

"Like what?" she asks.

Killian doesn't answer, just stares straight ahead at the road, watching the light change from red to green.

"Like what, Killian?"

"I'd rather not say, but suffice to say it wasn't very pretty."

"So that gives you the right to judge my relationship?"

She's not really mad at him, she knows that. She knows that, but it feels good to get angry.

"He left you, Emma. Why the hell were you standing outside a skating rink at 10:30 on a Thursday night with nowhere to go?"

"I don't know," she says.

She means for it to be strong, but it sounds weak even to her ears.

"I don't know," she repeats.

He lets out a deep rattling breath, "He's not a nice person, Emma. If you know what's good for you, you'll stay away from him."

Part of her wants to protest. Wants to say that Neal is nice, in his way. That he makes her laugh, makes her smile, makes her feel special. But she doesn't know how to say it in a way that doesn't make her sound stupid and naive.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" she asks instead.

"I don't know," he answers, "I really don't know."

They ride the rest of the way in silence.

* * *

Ruby has a party the next night and Emma goes. She feels a weird sense of deja vu as Ruby answers the door and she shoulders her way into the house. It's been a long time since she's gone to a party without Neal and she suddenly realizes that she doesn't really know anyone without Neal at her side. People smile at her as the passes them, but no one stops to say hello.

She heads straight to the kitchen and grabs a drink, tossing it back quicker than is probably wise and refilling it.

She feels free. Like she doesn't have to think or be or do anything. Like she could just stop. Stop everything. And that would be okay. She likes that idea. She really likes that idea.

She sees Killian on the other side of the room and calls his name. He looks up at her in surprise as she makes his way over to him, giggling when she stumbles and almost crashes into him. Someone jostles them and presses them together, her hands coming up to his chest as she smiles up at him.

"Hey," she says.

"Hey," he says and she can feel his heart beat thunder against her hands.

"You're not still mad at me, are you?" she asks.

She doesn't know why she asks that, but she finds once she does, she's desperate to know the answer.

"No," he says, the corners of his mouth twitching upward.

"You're nice," she says, surprised to find that it's true, "You don't want people to think you are, but you are."

"I'm really not," he says and something about the way he's looking at her through half closed eyes that has her closing the distance between them.

"Emma, what are you-"

And then her lips are on his. He doesn't respond at first, so she pushes closer, her hands going into his hair, pulling him towards her. His hands come to her shoulders and for a second she thinks he's going to draw her towards him, but then he moves her away.

"Not like this, Emma," he says and there is so much pity in his eyes that she wants to scream or cry or something.

She doesn't know why his rejection hurts so much, just that it does. Against her will, she feels tears welling up in her eyes and it's not him, it's everything coming down on her and she feels like she can't breathe and she wishes people would stop staring at her like if they made one wrong move she would explode.

"Emma," he says, reaching for her arm.

She shrugs him off, pulling away so hard that she runs into the guy behind her and then she's gone.

* * *

She calls Neal. She doesn't expect him to answer, but he does.

"Can you come get me?" she asks him.

She's crying at this point. He pretends he doesn't hear it.

"Where are you?"

She can hear the sounds of people talking in the background. Someone laughs.

"I'm at Ruby's."

"Okay," he says, "I'm coming."

The phone clicks silent. He doesn't explain why he left her the previous night or where he'd been or what he'd been doing or anything. But then again, she didn't ask.

* * *

She's stopped crying by the time Neal's car pulls up.

* * *

She regrets the words as soon as they leave her mouth.

"How do you know?" he asks, his voice so quiet she can almost can't hear him.

"Neal. I-"

"I said. How. Do. You. Know?"

"I told you. I saw them toge-"

"And you're sure?"

"Yes," she says and steals a glance over at him.

He's gripping the steering wheel so hard that she's worried he might break it and his eyes, where they are fixed on the road, are tight with rage. She tries not to compare the tense angry ride to the one she had previously shared with Killian. She doesn't really succeed.

"Because you better be fucking sure, Emma. Are you fucking positive? Because it's a big fucking deal if that goddamn sonofbitch is fucking my mom."

She flinches, but nods. She shouldn't have said anything. She shouldn't have said anything. Why did she say something? She's never been afraid of Neal, but she is now. There's something scary brewing in his eyes that she's never seen before.

* * *

She feels drained when she shows up to school on Monday, as if all the life has been sucked right out of her. She'd called Neal multiple times over the weekend, but he'd never answered. She doesn't know what she would have said if he had. She looks for his car in the parking lot, but she doesn't see it. Doesn't see him _anywhere_.

But however bad she feels, it's nothing compared to how bad Killian looks. A boy in the back of the class lets out a whistle of appreciation when he walks in the door. He looks destroyed: the entire right side of his face bruised, purple and yellow and blue marring his cheekbone, his eyes red and bloodshot, his posture slumped. _I did this,_ Emma thinks and she feels her heart ache, _I did this._

* * *

He brushes by her on his way out the door.

"Killian," she calls, reaching out to him.

He stops, but doesn't turn and for a long moment Emma thinks he might just keep walking. Then he turns to face her. Up close, he looks even worse than she had thought. Her hand aches to run over his cheek, to touch the marbled planes of his face. She curls it into a fist.

"Something you wanted, Swan?"

She's the one who stopped him, but suddenly, she has no clue what to say.

"I just- I wanted to apol-"

"Don't," he says.

"What?"

"Don't apologize."

"Why not?" she asks and how is her apologizing turning into a fight?

"Emma," he says and she thinks he's going to say more, but then he doesn't.

He just stares at her and he looks so tired and so lost that Emma feels like the breath has been knocked out of her.

"We all fuck up sometimes," he eventually says and she doesn't even know if he's talking about her or him anymore.

"Some more than others," she says.

He flinches at that. And fuck, she didn't mean it that way. She meant her, she's the one who fucked everything up. Or maybe she didn't. Maybe she meant him. She doesn't know anymore. She doesn't know anything anymore.

"I'm sorry," she says and she means for the comment and telling Neal and the kiss and everything that's gone wrong between the two of them.

"It's okay."

But it's not. It's really really not.


	3. Part III

Neal doesn't come back. She hears that he skipped town. Got sent to military school. Moved to London. Is running a drug cartel in South America. The truth is: no one knows.

* * *

Somewhere along the line she decides that it's time to get her shit together. What else has she got to do?

* * *

She actually picks up her textbooks and gets a tutor and turns in assignments and appreciates the look on her teachers' faces when they return her work as if they're saying _welcome back_ and she's so busy she can hardly breathe, but it feels good.

* * *

She finds a letter waiting for her on the dining room table when she comes home one afternoon, her name written on the front in an unrecognizable scrawl. _Who would be writing to her?_ she wonders, picking it up and feeling the cheap paper. She flips it over, sliding her finger inside the envelope to open it.

She scans the letter and she can't breathe. She can't breathe.

_I think I might be your father._

Holy fuck. Holy fuck.

* * *

His name is David Nolan and he lives in Storybrooke, Maine and he might be her father.

* * *

She really really can't think about any of it right now, so she throws herself into her studies and when she passes all of her finals she breathes a sigh of relief. She can do this. She can do this.

* * *

"Emma," Dr Hopper says, "What can I help you with?"

"Hey," she says and her chest feels all weird and tight and she thinks maybe she isn't going to do this, but then she forces it out, "I know this semester has kind of been a disaster, but is it too late for me to try and apply to college?"

The answering smile he gives her is so bright and relieved that it almost makes Emma feel bad. She laughs nervously, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.

"It is not too late," he says, "Why don't you come in and we can talk about your options?"

She smiles and it's tentative and fragile, but it's there.

"I'd like that," she says.

* * *

Emma has taken to bringing her books to lunch with her, working on homework and using her work as a shield from the rest of her peers. She doesn't have to worry about the empty seats around her table, just a reminder that she's fabulous at driving people away when she's focusing on a math problem or college essay.

She hears the scrape of a chair against the linoleum and looks up to see Killian Jones taking the seat opposite her.

"Hi," she says and it comes out more of a question than a greeting.

"Hello, Swan," he says, digging into his tray of food as if nothing had happened between them.

His bruises have faded, his face wiped clean, and she can almost pretend that the last couple of months never occurred, that they could have a fresh start. She looks at Killian and he meets her eyes and she thinks it's getting better. It has to get better.

* * *

The semester ends with an exhale. It's like she'd been holding everything in and when the bell rings for the last time she can finally breathe again. There is an excited murmur present wherever she turns, people hugging and laughing before they separate for winter break. Emma trudges through it, weaving through kissing couples and over excited freshman.

"Swan. Hey. Wait up."

She turns to find Killian jogging towards her, smiling as he reaches her, slightly out of breathe.

"What do you want, Jones," she asks.

"Just the pleasure of your company," he says, and it's all running full circle.

"Your house. You'll pick me up at 7?" she asks, and his responding laughter means he remembers.

"I'd actually really rather not go home right now," he says, and his eyes are a touch too serious to be blasé , "can I come with you?"

She looks at him, really looks at him. Studies the brush of dark hair across his brow, the way his brow furrows as he stares back at her, the depth of his eyes, the slight part to his lips. Someone pushes her in their rush to get through and Killian steadies her, his hand on her shoulder.

"You don't even know where I'm going," she says.

"That's alright. Wherever the wind takes us, Swan."

"Okay," she says, "okay."

* * *

He walks her home and they talk, her eyes on the cars as they rush by, but she can feel his gaze on her. When they get to her house, she stops on the top of the steps and looks down at him. It could end here, she could say goodbye and shut the door, but she thinks of the look in his eyes when he'd talked about home and she finds that she doesn't want to.

"Do you want to come in?" she asks.

"I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

Nothing happens. She's not even sure if she wants it too.

* * *

He texts her later that night while she's helping Susan wash dishes after dinner. She pulls her phone from her back pocket, soap suds still on her hands and is surprised to find a smile crossing her face when she sees who it's from.

She sees Susan watching her out of the corner of her eye and she slides the phone back into her pocket.

"What?" she asks the other woman.

"Nothing," Susan replies, "it's just nice to see you smile."

* * *

They're friends. Sort of. He just shows up at her house sometimes. He never tells her where's he's been and she doesn't ask, just lets him in.

* * *

They're watching TV, Killian's arm resting on the back of the couch, the skin of his forearm occasionally brushing against her hair. She has her knees pulled up on the couch and her left knee is touching his. Emma tries to pay attention to the show, but her eyes can't quite focus on the car chase going on onscreen. She can tell Killian isn't interested in the show. Can feel his eyes burning into her.

"Emma," he says.

"Hmmm," she replies, not turning towards him.

He pokes her side. She looks at him. His eyes are shining and mischievous and his smile is devious.

"Oh no," she says, "No. No. No."

"Are you ticklish, Swan?"

"Nope," she says, but his smile tells her that he doesn't believe her.

He pokes her again and hits a sensitive spot on her stomach. She laughs and hits him with the pillow in her lap.

"You've just started a war, Swan," he says.

He attacks her side and she tries to fend him off, but she's laughing too hard to be effective. They are a mess of limbs as she tries to scramble away from him, one of her legs hits his stomach and his hand brushes her knee and his head knocks her shoulder and her hair flies everywhere.

It ends with his body covering hers. He looks down at her breathing heavily and his face blocks out everything else, she can't see anything but him, and she can't breathe.

"I just..." she says and it comes out quiet and throaty.

"Emma," he says.

"...need to get some air," she finishes.

She feels his exhale against her face and then he's rolling off of her . She sits up and runs a hand through her hair, pushing herself to her feet.

"I'm just not ready," she says, not looking at him, staring at a picture of Aaron's fifth birthday party above the TV, eyes tracing the outline of balloons and smiling faces.

"I know," he says, "I know."

* * *

She hears a tapping on her window in the middle of the night. She starts awake and rolls out of bed. It's cold, snow dusting the ground, and her skin tingles when she presses it against the glass so she can peer out into the yard.

She sees a figure on the ground tossing rocks up at her and she feels equal parts exasperation and affection.

She pads down the steps lightly, wary of the people asleep behind closed doors. She ducks out the door and shivers at the sudden onslaught of cold air.

"Killian," she whispers, "what are you doing?"

"Emma," he says, smiling hazily.

That's when Emma realizes that he is very very drunk.

"I came to see you," he says, stumbling towards her.

She puts her arm around him to hold him up and starts dragging him inside. She doesn't know what she's doing, but she can't leave him standing outside in the cold without a jacket and taking him home is not an option.

"You've got to be quiet, okay?" she whispers to him as she tries to close the door with her arm still around him.

"Okay," he says, too loud.

She shushes him, pressing her finger to her lips, but then he's just looking at her lips and _oh brother, no._

She drags them up the stairs, wincing at each of his footfalls and then pulling them into her bedroom and shutting the door.

He pushes her against the door, pressing his whole body against hers, his forehead resting against hers and everything about him too close.

"You're pretty," he says.

"Thank you," she says, placing her hands on his chest, "and you are very drunk."

She pushes him off and he lets out a groan of protest.

"Come on," she says, "Let's get you to bed."

"Is that an invitation, Swan?" he asks, grinning at her.

"You wish, Jones," she says.

"Hmmm," he replies, as she pushes him back into the bed.

She leans over him to tuck the covers around him. She expects him to make a lewd remark, but he doesn't, just stares at her with blue eyes that are deceptively clear. He reaches over and tucks a stray curl behind her ear, his hand sweeping across her cheek. She shivers and moves back.

"Emma. Wait," he says, his hand grasping her arm to stop her.

"What?"

"Thank you. I just- I couldn't go back to that house."

"Anyone would do the same."

"You'd be surprised," he said, his voice soft and for a second he doesn't sound drunk at all.

"Go to bed, Killian," she whispers.

"Okay," he says, and looks at her with eyes younger than the rest of him.

And maybe it's the way that he's staring at her with vulnerable eyes, but she finds herself leaning down and pressing a kiss to his forehead. His eyes flutter closed as she pulls away.

* * *

He's gone when she wakes up.

* * *

_sorry for last night_

_you dont have to apologize_, she replies.

_i do_

* * *

"Come to apologize in person?" she asks, as she opens the door,

"I come bearing gifts," he says, brandishing a bag of fast food.

"Yes," she says, shutting the door behind her, "and we can eat on the go. I'm not staying in this house for another minute. I think if I stare at my college applications forms any more, I might scream."

"Okay," he says.

They walk in silence for a minute, staying by the side of the road. She watches her feet, one crossing in front of the other causing her to weave to the side. He's close enough that her hand brushes his, their palms momentarily pressing together. She glances up at him sharply and their eyes meet.

He hands her the bag of food and she takes it, averting her eyes.

She thinks about the time she ran this same path, her heartbeat as thunderous as the pound of her feet. It seems like such a long time ago that she saw him sitting on the Gold's front steps, a cigarette propped between his lips, though it's only been a couple of months.

She sneaks a glance at him and is struck by how beautiful she is. She knows that guys aren't supposed to be pretty, but he is. His profile striking against the monotonous houses.

She wants to ask him about Neal's mom, about Millah. She thinks she's going to, but instead what comes out is, "I want to go find my dad."


	4. Chapter 4

"You want to what?"

Emma takes a deep breath.

"I want to go see my dad. He sent me a letter a couple of weeks ago saying that he wanted to meet me."

No one says anything and Emma feels the tension thick throughout the room. Mike and Susan sit on either side of the sofa, an improvised audience. Susan isn't looking at Emma. She's staring off towards the kitchen, her face in profile.

"I haven't said anything, but I want to go see him. And Killian said he would go with me."

"The Jones boy?" Mike asks.

Emma doesn't know him well, hasn't taken the time to really, but she is touched by the concern she sees on his face, settling in the creases in his forehead and furrows of his eyes.

"Yes," she says, "We're both eighteen and I'll be back before school starts."

"I know the town. Storybrook, you said?" Mike says.

"Yeah," Emma says, letting out a sigh of relief. This is going over better than she thought it would.

"How are you even sure this is your dad?" this is from Susan, her eyes now fixed on her sweater's hem as she fiddles with a loose strand.

She is still avoiding Emma's gaze. Emma wishes she would look at her

"I'm not," Emma says, "but I talked to Marvalyn and she says he got in contact with the agency two years ago, but he wasn't allowed to contact me till I turned eighteen. They're not sure he is my father, but they think it's a definite possibility."

"You've really thought about this?" Susan asks, finally meeting her eyes and Emma feels like she can breathe again.

"Yeah," Emma says, "Yeah. I have."

* * *

They leave the second Monday of break. The day is sharp and clear and Emma can hear her heart beating as she walks down the driveway towards Killian's car, a duffel thrown over one shoulder. She can feel Susan watching her from the living room window. She meets Killian's eyes through the windshield and feels her heart clench. She can't believe she's doing this. _She can't believe she's doing this._

* * *

She feels awkward once they're actually on the way, nothing but the empty road stretching out in front of them. She watches the landscape rush past, strip malls flying by and then just trees, their branches dipped in snow. She's very aware of Killian's presence. Too aware. He's close enough that she could reach over and touch him if she wanted to. She wants to.

* * *

An hour in, Killian turns on music. It should be soothing, but Emma just feels suffocated. The heat is blasting in her face and she feels like she can't breathe. Her skin feels feverish and clammy and too tight, like everything is pressing down on her. She rests her head against the window, feels the cool glass press against her cheek. She closes her eyes, tries to trick herself into calming down, but she can't seem to turn her brain off. She can't stop thinking about what will happen once they reach the end of their journey. She can't stop thinking. She can't.

* * *

They pull into a motel late that night.

"You okay?" Killian asks once they've parked.

Her hand is on the door handle and she's looking out towards the motel, the street lamp by the car turning everything black and white, as if all the color had leaked from the world.

"Yeah," she says, but her voice sounds weird and tight.

"Emma," he says, "talk to me."

"Let's go check in," she says.

She hears his frustrated sigh, but she's already pushing the door open, letting the cold air wash over her. There is snow on the ground, the white mixing with the dirt and grit of the parking lot so that's it's mainly piles of grey slush. She shivers.

"Here," Killian says, already starting to shrug out of his jacket.

"I'm fine," she says brushing past him, "I'm fine."

* * *

Emma takes a shower, letting the hot water rush over her, draw the tension from her back and shoulders, drown out everything, until she can't hear anything but the pounding of the water. The steam fills up the room and when she steps out she can't see herself in the mirror. She moves her hand across it until her face appears, damp blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders and worried eyes staring back at her. Her breath comes in sharp gasps and she buries her head in her hands. _What is wrong with me?_ she wonders. _What is wrong with me?_

* * *

When she exits the bathroom, Killian's lying on his bed watching tv. He's taken his shoes off. Seeing his bare feet is strangely intimate and Emma stifles the urge to laugh at the absurdity of it.

"Hey," he says, when she enters, sitting up and turning off the tv.

"Hey," she says, "bathrooms free if you need to-" she gestures with her hands, "-whatever."

"Okay," he says, standing up and heading towards her.

He brushes past her on the way to the bathroom, close enough that he invades her personal space, close enough that she can feel the warmth of his body, close enough that she wants to lean even closer. She steps back quickly, allowing him to access to the bathroom door. She feels his eyes on her, too intense, before he leaves the room. She takes a deep breath, her eyes on the door, before crossing to her bed and sitting on the edge of it, smoothing her hands over the stiff comforter. She hears the water running in the bathtub and then the sound of the shower turning on. She tries not to think about what's going on behind the closed door. She really doesn't need those images in her head. She lies down, wet hair soaking the pillow as it fans out. She can smell the hotel shampoo, fragrant and tropical. She closes her eyes, listens to the sound of the shower, like the pounding of rain against the ground.

* * *

She keeps her eyes closed when he comes out of the bathroom, pretending to be asleep. She hears him pad around the room and then the click as the lights go off and the rustle of covers as he slides into bed. Emma listens to his breathing, the inhale and the exhale stark against the silence of the room. She can hear every breath, the way the air catches in his throat, the exhale as it brushes past his lips. Emma doesn't know what she thought this trip was going to be like, but it's not this. She couldn't have imagined the awkwardness and the intimacy and the lying awake with him _right there_ and just wanting. Wanting him. And it terrifies her.

* * *

After lying awake for what feels like hours, she sits up. The room is dark, only a sliver of light coming through the crack in the curtains, causing a line of light to cut across the room. She glances over at the other bed and looks at Killian, his face slack with sleep. She swings her legs out of bed, the carpet scratching against her bare feet. She stands, crossing to the door, grabbing a sweatshirt-hers or Killian's she doesn't check- and her room key, glancing back at him one more time to check that he's still sleeping and then slips out the room.

* * *

She goes to the pool on the ground floor, swiping her card and shouldering the heavy glass door open. The air is humid in the room, despite the cold outside and Emma can feel condensation gathering on her exposed skin. She sits on the edge of the pool, rolling up her pajama pants and dangling her legs over the water. The water is tepid, but it feels good against her bare skin. She can see snow through the screen door in the middle of the wall, a weird contrast to the warm water against her feet.

"I wondered where you went. I woke up and you weren't there."

She turns to see Killian standing behind her, hair mussed with sleep and eyes bleary.

"Sorry," she says, kicking the water and feeling it slosh up and soak the hem of her pants.

"It's okay," he says, sitting down next to her, "I was just worried."

His feet join her in the water and she can feel his gaze on her, though she's still staring off out the door.

"Emma. Do you regret asking me to come? Is that what this is about."

She doesn't know how to answer, so she's silent.

"I feel like I've done something wrong. But I don't know what it is."

"No," she says, "It's me. Something's wrong with me."

"What do you mean?"

"I just-I don't know."

She falls silent. She doesn't know how to explain and he doesn't press her. The silence stretches on and on. She moves her feet against the water, feeling like she needs to do something with her body. She almost wishes he would leave, but he doesn't. Just sits there until she starts to talk.

"Just. Everyone leaves me. My foster parents keep getting rid of me, because they get their own kids or because they don't have room or because they don't-" her voice breaks, "don't love me. And then Graham. And Neal. And I know that he probably wasn't good for me or whatever, but I just. I needed someone and he was there. But even he left me."

He's quiet for a long moment. Emma can't look at him. Can't believe she said any of that to him.

"Is this about your dad?" he asks.

Emma wishes it was that simple.

"Yes," she says and it's true. Of course it's true. But it's not the whole truth.

"There's nothing wrong with you, Emma," he says, "I promise."

"I'm scared, Killian," she says, her voice small.

His hand falls over hers, taking it from it's place in her lap and interweaving her fingers with his.

"I know," he says, "But you don't have to be."

* * *

The closer they get to their destination, the tighter the knots in her stomach get. She feels all nervous and terrified and she can't breathe. Her lungs ache and her head hurts and she feels like she's going to explode.

"Breathe," Killian says, his eyes flicking from the road to her, "Just breathe. You can do this. I know you can."

She sucks in a breath and feels oxygen return to her brain. She can do this. She can do this.

* * *

They pull into his neighborhood. All the houses look the same. Nice. They look nice. Nicer than any house she's ever lived in. Pastel colors. Big yards. Gardens. The GPS beeps, announcing their destination is on the left. Killian pulls over, parking on the side of the street and shutting off the car. Emma glances out the house, her eyes darting everywhere, trying to take it all in, and then looks away. _Is this where she would have grown up? Taken her first steps? Gone on her first date? Had a family?_

* * *

She pushes the car door open and hears Killian do the same. She feels the wind ruffling her hair as she takes her first steps towards the house. It all feels so surreal. She can't quite believe that it's her doing this. Her feet walking up the front steps. Her body here on his front porch. Her hand against the wood of the house. Her breath coming in harsh gasps.

"Emma," she hears from behind her, a hand touching the small of her back, "are you okay?"

No. No. She's not okay. She can't do it. She can't. What if it's not him? What if he's not her dad? What if this is the wrong house? She should have called. Why didn't she call? Or look him up? Or stalk him on the internet or something? What if she's not she's not what he wanted or expected and this was a really really bad idea. She just wants to go go go go.

She turns abruptly, moving to leave the porch and feels Killian's hands on her waist.

"Emma," he says, "what are you doing?"

She struggles against him and feels his arms tighten around her.

"Please," she says, "Please, Killian. Let me go."

He loosens his hold and she breaks free of his grip.

* * *

She's sitting on the side of the street when he finds her and sinks down beside her.

It's cold.

She can feel the sidewalk leaching the warmth from her backside and the heat of his leg as it presses against hers. He doesn't say anything and neither does she, but he takes her hand, rubbing circles on her palm. After awhile she lets out a long exhale, her breath misting in front of her, and feels her shoulders relax.

"Why did you run?" he asks, finally breaking the silence.

"You know why," she says, her voice small and thick with emotion, "I told you why."

"But I don't understand, _Emma_. Please look at me," he says, his hand turning her face towards him.

His eyes are bright and clear and his brow furrowed. He's close. So close there's barely a breath between them.

"Why can't you see how wonderful you are?" he asks, his hand still cupping her cheek and he's so beautiful Emma doesn't know what to do with herself.

So she kisses him. At first his mouth is unyielding against hers and she remembers another time when she kissed him with alcohol on her breath and she's afraid, but then his hand moves into her hair and he surges forward. She clenches the material of his jacket and pulls him closer.

When they break apart for air, her fists keep him rooting in place, their foreheads touching. Her heart feels like it's going to beat out of her chest.

"Go," he says, his voice throaty and breathless.

"As long as you come with me."

* * *

They walk down the street hand and hand, their fingers interlocked, their palms pressed all the way together. When they reach the house, she looks up at it, so large and beautiful and full of impossible possibilities, and she's scared. But she trusts him. _She trusts him._ As she raises her hand to the doorbell, she meets his eyes and he looks back at her, his whole face smiling, and she thinks maybe everything will be alright.

She's not running anymore.


End file.
